How Far We've Come
by panicpeachpit
Summary: One-shot. Post terror attack. In light of recent events, Ethan struggles to ground himself. It is easy to bury himself in work... that is, until, he is kept an eye on by concerned Duffy and Charlie, who band together to try and help break down some barriers.


**_How Far We've Come _**

* * *

"Evening. Well, morning, I suppose," Ethan rests gravely by the windowsill, where the world is waking up outside it. He watches children in puffy coats, led along by parents in jackets zipped to the nose. Air comes out of mouths like thin clouds.

"You've been ignoring my calls. I get it. Well. I suppose it's possible that I don't. You could text. You could leave a voicemail. Anything. You know what happened, at the market. I would've thought - I mean, I would've expected-" he sucks in a breath. "Anything from you. Anything at all."

"You know what, Connie? I'm angry at you. I'm really... really angry with you. For never telling me. Never confiding. You know I always have time to listen."

He huffs against the windowpane. Bunches his fists.

"You just left. And nobody can give me a straight response as of why you left or when you're returning... I'm angry. I'm angry you didn't even think to say goodbye. You did horrible things and hell, I have no leverage here... but you had redemption. You could have at least explained it. I thought we were more than that."

"And, you're better than this. _Seriously_ better than this. I... understand. Alright? How it feels when everything goes wrong and you have no power to stop it and you feel the whole world go out of your control, and you hate that because everything has to be in your control. Because if you're controlling it, it can't go wrong. Right? I get it. I know that it's hard to cope when it's like that and everything has gone wrong and you're left in the aftermath. Sometimes you can't deal. Sometimes you grasp ahold of something to keep you busy because you can't bear to think about it or let yourself slip into the habit of indulging in the what-ifs. And I-"

He stops. He has said too much. Nonchalantly, he says goodbye to nobody, switches off his phone, and slumps by that window until it is time for his shift.

_x-x-x-x-x_

"Forgive me for saying this, Ethan, but you do seem like you've lost a fair bit of weight."

"No, I... haven't. But thank you for your concern." And, rather rashly, ends his sentence with a rough: "I assume that's what it is."

Charlie, someone who has met many people in his time, a lot of whom were unkind, is surprised by this. It was verging on so many people that he'd met in his life that he lost count and reminiscence. Each day, a new face. Each day, another personality, another set of quirks, times one hundred. Never did they stick around long enough for him to establish them in his he was getting old; too old to keep anything in his mind that wasn't necessary. Perhaps he'd just heard too many stories and seen too many faces.

However, he had a fair few people who he didn't let merge into one faceless thought. One was Connie. He'd witnessed her downfalls many times. He'd missed the signs of her breaking down this time. They had been hidden so swiftly; her speciality. Here they were again, in the form of slightly frazzled, much thinner, and wary-eyed Ethan.

"No, no. Just something I noticed."

"Nothing to notice. I'm absolutely the same I always was."

Ethan gathers the cup he'd been stirring with noticeable irritation. It was either Charlie imagining an attitude, but he swore that Ethan huffed with indignance like his son used to.

_x-x-x-x-x_

It was bad enough that Charlie noticed, but worse still that he seemed persistent in roping everyone into this tedious routine of concern. There was absolutely nothing to worry about.

And no, calling Connie wasn't him being bothered she didn't contact him after the terror attack. It wasn't him going after attention. But, well... He supposes he was disappointed. It doesn't mean he wants worries. He just can't quite believe how little he means to someone he gave so much to. And he thought they had common ground. Maybe. Perhaps.

Nevertheless. He doesn't need anyone.

He has established a meaningful project in Effie. There was something he recognised in her eyes; a sort of desperation. She pretended she'd lost hope, so when hope really was lost, she could shrug, laugh, and say she didn't care - couldn't care _less_, in fact, and let smirk in the face of death. A cavalier attitude he recognised thoroughly. It was a protective mechanism. It was not defeat. It was her wrapping her arms around herself to shield from the impact sure to come; an impact he wished to stop before it occurred.

If he could fix her, he knows how much better he'd feel. Selfish, he knows. And, all right, no, he isn't eating. No, he isn't sleeping. He isn't doing much of what he was supposed to be doing - that included his actual duties, most of the time. But _this_ _project_ is his medicine. In fixing her, he is fixing himself, the big gaping damage that the terror attack and more fresh losses had left behind. It is selfish when thought of in that way.

But if you do a good thing for selfish reasons, does that make it bad?

Nevertheless, he sees no reasoning for this persistent concern, brushing past Charlie, ignoring Will's attempts at feeble humour, hardly giving a second glance to the few nurses who noticed the abrupt change in his behaviour. What does it matter? He's a broken individual. He's had a lot of misfortune but dwelling miserably over it isn't going to help! Admittance to misery never made the misery go away. It just made people talk in soft voices and for him to be full of tea, homemade lasagnas and squeezed too tightly on the shoulder.

Even as morning turns into a slow afternoon, Connie has not yet replied to his voicemail. Instead, responses from his CF trial queries have flooded in. He is almost inundated. It is remarkable what a little white lie can do.

_x-x-x-x-x_

Charlie returns at quarter to five to an eerily quiet and clean house. It is abnormally early for him, but truth be told, he can't stick around the ED much more. It is like waiting for an accident to happen; that's the premise of his whole career, he supposes. It feels a little different when you're literally watching a person fall apart before your eyes.

Harried, a dishevelled blonde head peeks around the door. "Oh," says Duffy. "You scared the life out of me. I wasn't expecting you back for a good few hours."

"Lucky you, I clocked off before my time."

"Won't that get you in trouble?"

"I worked extra yesterday. I think I've done enough overtime in my life to earn this..."

"I'd agree. I don't suppose anyone can argue with over thirty years of service. Come in, I'm in the kitchen. Take your shoes off."

He does as told. "You seem flustered."

"I do? Well, I guess I am a little. I wanted to cook something for dinner, and I was excited about it all week."

Charlie can't grasp the problem. "Right."

"Issue is, I can't remember what that something was."

"I'm sure it'll come to you, darling."

"Until then, we're having cottage pie," she says brightly. "We haven't had that all week, have we?"

He hopes very much that she doesn't remember that it's all they've had. All week, give or take, besides Sunday. He insisted on cooking that day, traditions and all that, and despised the idea of her having to cook a full roast, especially considering the time she's had of late. She hated the experience of having him cook - said it felt like being looked after. Charlie had just stayed quiet.

"You look like you had a difficult day at work."

"Difficult... just draining, that's all."

"Kick up a chair, you don't need to help," she bats him away and begins to peel a potato. "I'm not a total invalid, you know."

"You're not an invalid at all."

Charlie watches her deft movements. As always, he worries a little as she slices through the potatoes. He has seen too many accidents happen in his long life. It has awoken the cynic in him, always wide-eyed and just waiting for something awful to occur.

"You know, I... I thought of Louis today," says Charlie, without realising he was going to say that.

"You did?"

"Yes. Ethan reminded me of him."

Duffy chuckles. "He is a little grumpy, these days. Always so lovely to me, though, particularly when I'm the patient. Though it's been a while since I've been in the ED," she says. "He's a good one."

"Not so much to me."

"It's that he doesn't like being suffocated, you know."

"You're insinuating something."

"Well, you can be a little..." she pauses, chin in the air, grasping for the right word. "Overbearing," she settles on, satisfied.

"It isn't just me. I've got word that he's even batted Will off a couple of times and I'd have thought Will would have a bit of influence, considering they have a history. I don't think he understands."

"Understands what?"

"That we're, well, on his side. Especially after the terror attack. I know Big Al died in the same incident and I couldn't quite shake how similar the names were, and I could just see the utter guilt in Ethan's face the moment he came back from the attack. I don't think we had a single moment of eye contact."

"Survivors guilt."

"That's it."

"Have you spoken to him about it?"

"Well, in a matter of ways," he says. "I can't get him to stay still long enough."

"Is that what's on your mind? Ethan?"

"I came home early to get a break from the worry of waiting for something awful to happen. What with... all that happened with Connie, well... I'm waiting for it to happen. Perhaps it just happens over and over and I've never noticed the pattern before."

"It won't. They're entirely different people."

Charlie watches the sunset under slightly ajar blinds. "They have their similarities," he says and rises to twitch them closed. "You must admit that."

"Of course. Stubborn. Clever. Extremely preoccupied having control," she says. "But the sky is blue and so is water. That doesn't make them the same, does it?"

"Water isn't blue, actually."

"Just take my point and run with it. You see her in him, of course. Well, do what you didn't do last time. And that's not me saying you didn't do enough last time, I-"

"Don't... I understand. Perfectly." He rests his palms against the counter. "You've probably chopped enough, now."

"I don't think so. Not for three people."

"It's just us, darling. Two."

"I know that," she says, a little indignantly at his soft correction. "So far. You're going to get on the phone and you're going to tell Dylan to let the most ragged and exhausted consultant in the hospital leave for his shift early. Then you're going to tell that consultant that I want a word. Here."

_x-x-x-x-x_

Initially, Ethan said no. Upon reconsideration, he realises how he cannot argue with Duffy, _ever_, and decided that if he denied Charlie, he would certainly get it in the ear from Charlie's stubborn missus. More stubborn than him... he was not going to win. So he had said a meek yes and got changed.

In some lights, he supposes vainly his clothes do look a little too loose. But didn't all jeans, when they hadn't been washed for some time, lose their tightness? He supposes they do and hopes he doesn't smell too. Then he realises he likely does. That isn't good. In a taxi reflection, he notices how his eyes are a little swollen. His face is blanched. It looks like he is sick.

None of that matters. All that matters is that he remained busy. If he allowed himself to sleep, he wouldn't be fixing Effie. If he showered, ate breakfast, that'd be precious time away from this project. He couldn't deal with that. Even this was time away that he can't afford right now.

The car journey is hellish. He absolutely hates having nothing to focus his brain on. There is nothing interesting about staring ahead at blobs of green trees, an ever-winding road and dopey pedestrians. It reminds him of sitting in the car, reading, on the way back from swimming lessons with Cal as a kid. He waits for accidents to happen. Cynic. They never do.

He is shocked at the sheer size of Duffy and Charlie's home. It is quite a surprise to see Duffy, in casual wear, perching on the porch in wait, until he remembers he hadn't seen her in her nurse's uniform in many weeks, so really, it should be getting more familiar to him She had coped with an early retirement - so final - amicably. In her situation, he knows he'd be far less understanding.

Perhaps he is swaying, perhaps he looks a little lost, but she opens her arms and hugs him as soon as he's close enough and too clogged up with nerves to even utter a hello. He tells himself it's because of greeting. Briefly, he wraps her arms around her back. Useless. He can't even remember how to show affection right. It has been too long since he has had to show compassion, even despite his profession.

"Come on. Come in. Dinner will get cold."

"Dinner?"

"Charlie's right," she says, turning, holding the front door open. "You're looking awfully thin and tired, and I won't have that."

_x-x-x-x-x_

He realises quickly that finding no time for food makes you either extremely hungry or with a stomach with less capacity. In the first few moments, he finds himself unable to focus on their jabs of conversation and feels nauseous from the meal. Eventually, he settles his stomach with a few glasses of water and he's full, despite the plate being only half touched, but not uncomfortably. He supposes he does feel better. A little.

"You're having juice. Apple or orange?"

"I really don't want juice," he says, trying to sound apologetic.

"You're having it, I don't want you deficient." She pours him two cups and he finds himself drinking them, one after the other.

"Is that why you got me here? To feed me up?"

"It wasn't my idea," Charlie says. "But I wouldn't object to that, no."

"Then why? I've got a lot of paperwork to catch up with."

"I'm sure that can wait," says Duffy, brightly.

"It really can't. Do you have any idea how stressed Dylan is? So much work to do. And so little time. Management will be down any minute. I really must get on."

They don't seem to feel affected, so he continues. "It's a tough job, you know. Dealing with the managerial side of the hospital. Everything reflects awfully bad on Dylan if it goes wrong. I can't-"

"Dylan will cope amicably, as he always does. He has been a doctor for a very long time and been clinical lead numerous times before. We mustn't underestimate him."

"I'm not," he insists. "I think he's a very good consultant. But _everyone_ burns out."

"Ethan," she says, the use of his name causing his stomach to squirm. He hates his name at that moment. "We wanted to talk to you. Away from all of the chaos of the ED. You can drop it, now. You don't have to be a doctor here; like we don't have to be nurses here."

"But you are... aren't you? Nurses. Constantly. I-I know what you're going to say. We've been here before."

"Have we?"

"Yes, you know when..." They stare at him blankly. "You do! You... you know, with-" he realises he can't say it.

Charlie speaks softly. "When have we been here before, and with who?"

He stiffens visibly. "Don't do that. Don't... make me say it."

Horrible images of his late brother, battered, fill his mind, and he can hardly bear it. Alongside loving, caring support from Duffy and Charlie, at the time, which had just cemented in the fact that Cal was dead, a disaster had occurred, and there was no coming back from it.

They hadn't forgotten. Not yet. Maybe never. He certainly never would.

He stands, gathers his plate and cups. Almost angrily he cleans the mess off of them, switches on the tap, falling into a routine of cleaning, drying, cleaning, drying. He doesn't even realise he's crying angry tears until his breathing comes out in short gusts and his eyes are bleary. He squeezes his eyes shut and dries his hands on his jeans.

"We're not trying to challenge you, Ethan. Even if you are trying to challenge us," says Charlie, fondly, and holds his shoulder. Ethan appreciates it for he feels awfully unsteady on his feet. "Sit down. Come on."

He is guided to his seat, feeling wrecked. It takes for Duffy's hand to snake out, to pull his arm out and to hold his hand inside of hers, for all composure to disappear. It brings emotion he didn't realise he was capable of producing. He dissolves into helpless tears at the table.

_x-x-x-x-x_

The hum of the TV reminds him of a lifetime before this one. Of course, it was only a few years ago that this was normal - an accompanied meal, washing up the dishes and then settling down to watch something. He'd push his brother to change the channel but they'd always end up watching the same things. It was a comfortingly regular routine. Sometimes he tried to follow it himself, alone, but it always makes him cry.

A loud programme follows on. Two characters, caught in some sort of traumatic incident. They are both bloodied and clutching eachother. It reminds him awfully of the terror attack.

That's something that changed; he no longer watches TV, it. Just in case. Just in case it comes back. It is hard enough to see people at the ED after a car accident or whatnot - blood-drenched reminds him of being confined under scaffolding. Shakes remind him of checking he still had all his limbs. Ash and dust remind him of choking and wondering if he'd ever be able to breathe fresh air again.

Duffy changes the channel. He shivers.

"You know, I... imagine it felt very... _lonely, _for her."

He watches her from underneath his eyelashes. "Sorry?"

"Keeping herself quiet." she pauses momentarily, swallowing. "About the... drug addiction, about her trauma." Duffy says, quite frankly. "Mrs Beauchamp."

"I know who you mean," he says indignantly. "I think she liked it that way."

"Who on earth likes being alone?"

"Anyone. You get used to it. It's like getting into a swimming pool. It's awfully cold, at first, but you settle. And then you can't imagine things any different." He scrubs at his eyes and feels that pit of humiliation. They are still a little wet. He sits up straight, adult, awfully aware they're watching him, exchanging glances.

Charlie raises, mumbling something about a drink. He walks into the kitchen and leaves them alone. After a few seconds of silence, he hears a gentle grumbling. Kettle.

She looks different, settled into the sofa in a place other than the staff room. The night felt weird. It was a different house to what he was used to. It felt like visiting grandparents. There was something vaguely nostalgic about it, but he's unable to appreciate it, because he knows they're both on each other's team, and Charlie left for a reason.

"Jan told me about some details of the terror attack."

"You'll know that Jan likes to talk."

"Not at all. She's been in this job a very long time. About the same time as Charlie and I, perhaps. She knows a lot about people. Knows a lot about many things."

He feels like coughing. His throat is dry. "What did she say?"

"It was a horrible day. I know she was afraid. You wouldn't have thought it, but she told me she was very afraid. Especially of losing staff."

"She _did_ lose staff."

"I know. She told me how horrific the collapse was. Nobody was expected to be alive under all of that. They might not have found you, had there not been a very strong voice calling out."

"That was probably Al, shouting. Before... well, before."

She continues, unaffected. "She told me it dawned on her that perhaps the real worry wasn't about how physically hurt you medics were. More... how awful it must feel to see your whole life in the balance. It terrified her. Especially when, as you know... you said you thought you were dying."

_Cold and dark. Something was pressing on his chest. He couldn't quite get in a breath. Bunched fists, hearing nothing but his own voice, ringing in his ears, nothing but the silence of death settling a few metres from him._

"I was being dramatic, I knew we were going to get out," he says with conviction. Then freezes. Because they didn't. Not together. Not at all.

Duffy stalls a little. "You know that Big Al was a good man. And you mustn't take what he did personally. He would've done it for anyone. I don't mean that horribly. He liked you. Everyone saw that. But I mean it that you weren't to blame. He would throw himself under a bus for someone he didn't know. That's just the sort of man that Al was."

"He shouldn't have died."

"No. Who should die? It's a horrible thing. But it was never your fault. And you didn't get out scot-free, did you?"

"I'm absolutely fine," he says tremulously.

"Marty says you've been having nightmares."

"You talk to a lot of people about me, it seems. And Marty likes to gossip." He feel awful, speaking bad of the kindly nurse. He was one of the people who offered sympathetic glances a lot and Ethan would be sick of it, if it didn't feel so horribly authentic. Maybe Marty did care. Maybe Ethan was too rash about these things. Nevertheless, he does not apologise or take back his words, and looks obstinately ahead into a beige wall.

"Yes. I do. I'm not around so much anymore, as you know, but I like to keep tabs. On everyone."

He shrugs his shoulders back.

"_Especially_ after what happened with Connie. I could've reached out with her."

"So this is... redemption?"

"No. I'm trying to help a friend. It's you who's searching for that."

Ethan huffs, stares at the news playing out on the television screen. It would not do his pride any good to keep quiet. He argues for the sake of it. Like a true brother would.

"Effie is... listen, Effie came to me - well, her father did, and I have a duty to him, as a friend. But truly, she's like any other patient. I have to save her. Or at the very least, I have to try."

"I know, and I think it's a lovely thing that you do so much. But you have to understand that you have a duty of care to yourself too."

He finds his lips fixing together resolutely. To his horror, his eyes feel hot. He refuses to cry. It is not acceptable. He will not.

"You can be human. You do have that right. It's not wrong to turn around and say that you're struggling. That you're upset with how things went, and that maybe you're angry about them. We won't go away. We won't get angry."

"I'm not afraid of that," he says, and feels a tear fall between his parted lips.

"What are you so afraid of?"

"I don't..." he scrubs at his cheeks, humiliated. "I don't know."

Duffy seemingly doesn't notice the shame. "I felt that way too. I still do, often. Sometimes it's hard to pinpoint exactly what's wrong when you haven't been yourself in a long time. And that's okay. It's truly okay. You don't have to know what you're afraid of."

"I guess it is a bit of what you said," he said, brokenly. "Just missing people, mostly. Missing Cal. Missing my mum. Missing Al, too, missing how it could've been. I wish it hadn't ended so badly. I wish I didn't always feel defeated. I wish I could sleep. I just... want to sleep."

"Have you seen a doctor about it?"

He wipes his face. "What about?"

"This. Sleeping. You could be prescribed sleeping pills, at least. You're not broken, Ethan. Far from it. You're just confused. This is temporary."

"I don't know," he says. "You must understand it. A bit. What with everything." she nods, a soft _I do_. "I feel that I'll be this way forever."

"You won't. Nobody's natural resting state is this bad."

"I mean, you wouldn't think it," he said, and laughed a little, sniffing, watching her affectionate smile. "What is so wrong with me, Duffy?"

"Nothing is wrong with you. Don't say it like that."

"I'm hardly normal, am I? Guess it sucks to try and face that."

Charlie returns with three mugs after a little too long. He seems somewhat sheepish. With tentative movements, he takes a seat beside Ethan.

"All right?"

Ethan nods. "All right."

Duffy takes her mug. "Would you say that normal exists, Charlie?"

"In my thirty years of nursing - well, over that, now - I can safely say I have never met a single normal person. Boring, yes. Standard, yes. Normal? I couldn't define that. I've never seen that."

The silence feels almost celebratory for Duffy, who tucks in her chin proudly and stares resolutely at the muted television.

A couple of minutes. She gives him a look, a smile. It's enough for him to cave in and admit it. Properly. "I... have been having nightmares," Ethan says, quietly. "And I have lost weight. Not on purpose. And I don't eat properly or sleep right."

Charlie gives him a mug of tea. "I'll tell you this, because I don't believe you're the sort of person to think any less of me for this - did you know that I was depressed, a long time ago?"

"I didn't know that," he admits.

"It was a very frightening experience. You know. Feeling a bit lost. And I didn't mention it to many people. I didn't want to feel judged. I think it's easy to feel that you have to put on a brave face all the time. You don't want to feel less of a man."

"It doesn't make you less of a-" Ethan pauses. "Reverse psychology is sneaky, Charlie Fairhead."

"If it works, I'll keep it up."

"I'm not feeling that way if that's what you're hinting."

"Simply sharing experiences," Charlie says. "Drink up, that'll get cold."

Duffy stews quietly in the corner armchair. Her attention doesn't seem focused on the television, as such. It is a long-winded news story with several reporters. Ethan doesn't recognise the topic. He rests comfortably into a pillow, cheek warm against the stitched material. Vaguely, he realises he could fall asleep.

Her voice sounds far away. "Ethan."

"Mmm?"

"You can sleep in the spare room. If you like. I'd like it if you did."

"Okay."

"Get washed up. We'll speak more in the morning, alright?"

He drags himself up on tired limbs. "The kitchen," he bursts out. "It's a mess."

"It's no disaster. I can clean it," Charlie says softly. "You need your sleep."

"I guess."

"Thank you, though."

"No, no... thank you. I'm sorry. I acted like a brat earlier."

Duffy chuckles, and Charlie shakes his head. "You didn't."

Upon passing, he leaves his mug by the kitchen sink, only peering briefly to look back to Charlie and Duffy. They sit, settled, amongst the pillows, watching the now unmuted TV. He feels a sort of faraway peace in having company. The staircase is long and windy. He hears the noise of a programme follow him upstairs. He is not alone.

A tired face greets him in the bathroom mirror when he gets washed up. There is a grey undertone to his skin. He realises he's been working himself to the bone. Will was right; he looks like a man who lives at the office. A few grazes still remain from the terror attack, impermanent reminders that make his skin crawl. His eyes fill. A tear slips into the sink. He swipes it away. Then he brushes his teeth and scrubs at his face and feels like he could fall asleep on the spot.

He climbs into the bed afterwards. It's different to what he's gotten accustomed to. The sheets are clean and fragranced. Almost like a hotel. He supposes anything is luxury to him since sleeplessness has left him occasionally passed out in a brittle office chair. It never was comfortable to burst awake with a crooked neck from sleeping on the desk.

Ethan lies back hesitantly. He is a little sceptical about sleep. He doesn't want a nightmare. He doesn't want to go back there.

He lays against the pillow and tries to call Connie. She doesn't reply, and so he leaves her a voicemail.

Best efforts don't quite work out. The TV is still on downstairs, so he walks down, noticed immediately.

"I don't feel entirely like sleeping," he says, feeling a good twenty years younger than he was.

"Me neither, nowadays. Come and watch this. It's about a woman who lives in the mountains," Duffy says.

He settles into a comfortable position. Lack of contact lenses makes the world blur around him. It is easy to close his eyes. Background noise helps. He feels less afraid. If the house was collapsing, they would alert him. If someone was dying, he'd be shaken awake. Less was to be feared. Less could go wrong.

Upstairs, his phone rings. He doesn't hear it but a voicemail awaits him for the upcoming morning.

However, this night is peaceful, quiet, though he does have a couple of nightmares and when startled awake, he feels a hand on his shoulder. It lulls him back into a less troubled sleep.

_x-x-x-x-x_

_"Hi, Connie. It's me again. You don't have to reply. I'd like it if you did, though. I didn't mean any of that in the tone I said it. I'm not angry. Not anymore. I suppose I just miss you. A lot. We were friends. I hate that you'd be struggling. And I just wanted to let you know that I'm not on your side. Yes, I know how that sounds. I mean it as in... I'm not on your side because there are no sides. That's not what life is. I'm here for you. I know you'll come back and I'm looking forward to seeing you again. I'm going to bed now. I hope you're feeling better."_

Connie rolls over in bed, feeling warmth at the words. Before, there had been dread to return to the ED. Currently, she felt it might be less of a painful task. Knowledge of friends and support made the dread ebb away. It is strange to leave such a kind voicemail back to him, but she does and feels immediately alleviated. Silence takes a lot out of you.

She clutched the duvet tightly to her chest and fell into a peaceful sleep.

_x-x-x-x-x_

_"Ethan. I'm sorry I missed your call. I hope you're sleeping well. I wish to leave rehab soon, better, and when I do, I would very much like to chat again. I heard about the attack. I had a horrible feeling you were involved. I won't extend sympathies, but I will tell you that I'm empathetic and that it's a nasty experience but I know you'll overcome it. You're much stronger than you believe. Take care. I hope to come back very soon."_

_x-x-x-x-x_

* * *

_"But I believe the world is burning to the ground_

_Oh well, I guess we're gonna find out_  
_Let's see how far we've come."_

* * *

_a/n: i wrote this a couple of weeks ago... not too sure why i didn't press post? ahaha. hope u like. i wrote this to "how far we've come" by matchbox 20 :) also i had such a weird sense of deja-vu when i was editing this? weird out of body experience. _


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